


en enfermedad y en salud

by taffiecat



Series: to care for you. [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andres being Soft, Andres isn't complaining, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay Panic, He has a madeleine addiction, Hungover Andres, M/M, Martin being Soft, Martin is a professional baker, Miscommunication, Sickfic, because if Martin is in a fic then there's gotta be a Gay Panic tag, mentions of sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24680638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taffiecat/pseuds/taffiecat
Summary: Truth be told, Andrés hadn’t gotten drunk to the point of feeling like death the next day in... well, maybe, ever. He had always been proud of his drinking tolerance; confident in his ability to drink anyone under the table without so much as feeling more than slightly tipsy. God only knows what happened to him last night, but he certainly doesn’t feel quite so confident in his abilities this morning.Or, Andres has a hangover and Martin takes care of him while he tries to piece together the events of the night before.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: to care for you. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784383
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	en enfermedad y en salud

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind comments and reactions to my first fic!  
> This is a continuation of 'borracho enamorado', focusing on Andres' reaction to the events of the night before, but can be read separately. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it!

The brightness of the light seeping through the curtains of Andrés’ bedroom is enough to wake him up the next morning, and, despite it being relatively early still, its intensity causes the inevitable splitting headache he was going to have to endure for the day to commence.

Andrés groans, quickly turning in his sheets so as to face the wall rather than the window, but immediately regrets the action as he feels a wave of nausea overcome him.

Truth be told, Andrés hadn’t gotten drunk to the point of feeling like death the next day in... well, maybe, ever. He had always been proud of his drinking tolerance; confident in his ability to drink anyone under the table without so much as feeling more than slightly tipsy. God only knows what happened to him last night, but he certainly doesn’t feel quite so confident in his abilities this morning.

As he lays in his bed, now facing the completely wrong way to the side of the bed that will offer him an easy escape route to his bathroom, he weighs up his options: he could stay like this until someone finds him, holding back his nauseous feeling; the pro of this would be not having to move, the con would be that he has no idea how long he’d have to stay feeling like this for. He quickly decides, as another wave of nausea threatens to forever ruin his silk bed sheets, that the con outweighs the pro. His other option, then, is to force himself to turn around, disentangle himself from his sheets, sit up, _stand_ up, and then leg it (at a moderate enough pace) to the bathroom. He can _quite literally_ think of nothing he would rather do less; and yet, he finds that his options are extremely limited.

Before he can talk himself out of it (and, believe him, he _would_ have talked himself out of it), he executes his plan in one fell swoop, landing on his knees with his head held over the toilet seat. Just as Andrés thinks that he couldn’t be any less dignified in this instant, he hears his bedroom door open and Martín’s confused _Andrés?_ sounding from the other side of the bathroom wall.

It takes Martín all of five seconds to join him by his side, one of his hands landing on Andrés’ back and rubbing strong, slow, soothing circles there. Andrés hears him whispering calming reassurances in his ear - _tranquilo, cariño, todo va a estar bien_ \- and he is close to him, _so close_ to him, close enough to put Andrés off the idea of throwing up so as to save Martín from the smell.

As he focuses on timing his breathing to the rhythm of Martín’s caresses, Andrés also tries to piece together the events of the previous evening. He remembers Sergio turning up at their flat to join them before heading out into town; Martín and he had already started drinking a good couple of hours before that but, like Andrés keeps trying to remind himself, he has a high tolerance for alcohol and therefore didn’t feel any more than a happy kind of tipsy. They’d called a taxi, despite Sergio’s protests that he could drive because he wasn’t going to be drinking much and they therefore didn’t need to spend any unnecessary amounts of money on transport. _Ah yes_ , Andrés think to himself. _That’s_ where it had all gone wrong. From that statement onwards, Andrés had made it his mission for the evening to get Sergio drunk; and if Andrés thinks he’s a stubborn person, well, Sergio could certainly give him a run for his money.

Andrés remembers rushing into the first bar in sight and immediately ordering the drinks, making it a round of _Your strongest possible drink,_ _por favor_. Andrés promised to match Sergio drink for drink so that his _hermanito_ wouldn’t feel too overwhelmed, but what Andrés failed to take in to his calculations was that Sergio hadn’t been on the wine since four p.m. It all went downhill from there.

His memory becomes hazy from then on; he remembers smiling, laughing, having fun with his best friend and even seeing Sergio crack a small, nervous smile (no matter how drunk he had gotten, he couldn’t possibly have forgotten that). As he wades through his fuzzy memories, the carefree and elated feeling associated with them turns into something sourer. He remembers glancing over at Martín once, and again, and then again, but Martín wasn’t staring back at him. Instead, his eyes were elsewhere; it seemed that the more drunk Andrés got, the more Martín’s eyes darted around the room, landing on a stranger, the doorway, the hanging chandelier, another stranger... Anywhere other than Andrés. Martín always paid attention to him, was always looking at him whenever Andrés would turn his gaze to meet his; why wouldn’t he be looking at him now? Without Martín’s eyes on him he felt cold, empty, _incomplete_. It wasn't until Martín’s gaze landed on a tall, handsome man who was staring right back at him, and he decided to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, that Andrés’ emptiness was replaced with rage and – what he now, as his head hangs over his toilet at six o’clock in the morning, recognises now as – jealousy.

He is interrupted from his thoughts as Martín’s firm hand moves from his back to his neck. Andrés lets out a small sigh despite himself as the Argentinian’s hand reaches his hair and he feels his fingers running through his curls.

‘Do you need to be sick, _querido_?’

Andrés manages to shake his head; there’s no way he’s going to allow himself to be sick in front of Martín. Besides, he can control himself, he’s not some kind of primitive animal.

Martín gives a soft nod of his head. ‘Can you stand up, then?’

The thought of standing honestly makes Andrés want to curl up into a ball and stay on the floor forever, and Martín seems to sense as much. He moves his hand to place it on Andrés' shoulder, the ghost of his touch still warm on his head. He adds his other hand to Andrés’ other shoulder and grips him firmly. Slowly, he helps Andrés up, and Andrés melts into the other man’s body, suddenly feeling weak and lightheaded. Martín adjusts his grip of Andrés so that he’s effectively hugging him now, and Andrés takes it as the perfect opportunity to nuzzle into the crook of the other man’s neck. They stay like that for a little while, finding their balance, before Martín starts to move towards the bed at a snail’s pace, dragging Andrés along with him as if he were some lifeless corpse in his arms.

As soon as he’s sat on his bed with Martín kneeling in front of him, there’s a glass of water in his peripheral vision that is being tilted towards his lips. He doesn’t know where it has come from, but before he can turn to see, Martín is caressing his cheek with the hand that isn’t holding the glass of water. He’s looking at him with such sincerity and care, no trace of pity in his eyes despite Andrés’ pitying circumstance.

Before Andrés even gets a chance to blink, Martín is suddenly moving in closer, placing a soft kiss on the spot he had been caressing moments before. A kiss turns into several small pecks, which he traces down the length of Andrés neck, making the man shiver.

‘Martín.’

It isn’t a question, but there’s a questioning edge to it. Martín seems to recognise this, slowly edging away to face the other man, his eyes widening as he takes in Andrés’ expression.

Martín is on his feet in seconds, pacing around the room and carding his fingers through his hair at a rate which makes Andrés feel dizzy once again and wants nothing more than for Martín to resume his earlier occupation.

‘Martín, please...’ It’s all he can get out before his splitting headache returns and he is forced to hang his head in his hands to try to prevent the pain. It gets Martín to stop pacing, though.

‘You don’t remember, do you.’

Martín isn’t asking.

When Andrés looks up at him, Martín looks positively broken. His hair is in disarray, his eyes are red with the threat of tears rolling down his cheeks, and his lips are pouted, turned into a frown. Andrés absolutely hates it.

He is about to ask Martín what he’s talking about when his eyes land on a tray balancing itself on his pillows. On it he sees an array of food – from a croissant to some small madeleines – a cafetiere full of coffee, and some flowers that he recognises from their neighbour’s balcony in a jug full of water. All of a sudden, everything comes back to him. The tentative touches throughout the evening, the tension as they waited for the taxi in the cold, the hungry yet all-too soft kisses in the back of the vehicle… He smiles to himself at the memory.

‘You made me breakfast in bed?’ is all he says.

Martín stares at him a little incredulously, but sighs despite himself. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be feeling great this morning. I didn’t want to leave you, but I knew you’d need a drink and some food... I did leave you a note,’ he adds, sheepishly.

Andrés turns his head to his left. Sure enough, half-tucked between the pillow and the duvet is a small piece of paper. Instead of reaching over to grab it, he gestures for Martín to sit next to him. Martín complies.

‘You’re right. _Of course_ you are,’ he smiles up at the other man through half-closed lids. They are close now; close enough for Andrés to hear Martín’s breathing accelerate ever-so slightly. ‘I should eat something,’ he all but whispers against the other man’s ear. ‘Those madeleines look particularly appealing.’

He sits back enough to see Martín’s face, and lets out an endearing chuckle at the other man’s blushed cheeks. He imagines Martín waking up earlier than him, quietly climbing out of bed and deciding that he would spend his morning by baking madeleines for him.

Martín turns around enough to reach for the plate full of the small muffins. He picks one up, offering it to Andrés, but the Spaniard takes it between his teeth and eats it straight out of Martín’s fingers.

Andrés watches Martín’s eyes widen.

‘Some coffee would be perfect, now,’ he says as he finishes eating, licking his lips in an overtly teasing manner. He slightly regrets his decision to eat the madeleine all in one as the sweetness of the food makes him feel slightly sick once more, but he reasons that Martín’s reaction had been worth it.

Martín’s hands tremble slightly as he pours the coffee into the cup and holds it up to Andrés’ lips. He takes a sip of his coffee and, just as his own lips leave the cup, Andrés replaces them immediately with Martín’s.

The kiss is soft, again, like the evening before; Andrés honestly doesn’t think he could handle much more than this with the state he is in, despite Martín’s soft moans making him briefly consider otherwise.

‘I remember, Martín,’ he manages, smiling into the kisses that the other man continues to offer him, ‘Not all of it, mind you, but I remember the most important parts.’ He looks deep into Martín’s impossibly blue eyes, before kissing him once more, more fervently this time. ‘I remember touching you, kissing you, asking you not to leave me,’ he pauses at the sound Martín makes, taking it all in.

‘You’re so good to me, Martín,’ he says, and he immediately gets a déjà-vu from the previous night.

‘I’m just taking care of you,’ Martín repeats his statement from the night before more confidently, clearly remembering their interaction better than Andrés.

He smiles against the other man’s lips.

‘It’s rotten work, you know. Taking care of me.’

‘Not to me,’ Martín breathlessly sighs out, looking at him with such adoration that it is all Andrés can do to not press him down further into the sheets there and then, ‘Not if it’s you.’


End file.
